


Thrill You Like Michael, Kiss You Like Prince

by honey_wheeler



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-06
Updated: 2016-06-06
Packaged: 2018-07-12 15:21:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7111093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honey_wheeler/pseuds/honey_wheeler
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Brienne has loved one man, and almost loved another, but never has she felt what it means to be loved herself. Perhaps this is her only chance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Thrill You Like Michael, Kiss You Like Prince

**Author's Note:**

> Look, I'm easy.

All her life, Brienne has been something of a spectacle. Even before she began training to be a knight, back when she still played with dolls and dutifully wore the dresses her Septa insisted upon, she was always gawky and oversized, never quite at home enough in her own body to do anything but stand out. The looks were ones of curiosity and pity back then; they’d frequently become looks of derision when she became a knight, and scorn when she proved herself to be a knight who could beat men.

Yet still the Wildling’s attention on her is disconcerting.

His eyes have barely left her since they arrived at Castle Black. Each time she does no more than cross the yard, he’s watching her as if she’s one of the camp followers that used to collect around the knights when Brienne served in Renly’s Rainbow Guard, girls who drew men’s eyes without even seeming to try. Girls completely unlike Brienne. Truth be told, she’s never been looked at with such frank appreciation. Not that she’s a stranger to being admired; however immodest it may be, she knows herself to be a knight of considerable skill. But such admiration had always been grudging, reluctant. Sometimes even mocking. Even Jaime’s admiration had come with a curious mix of surprise and sadness, as if it reminded him of something lost to him, something other than his sword hand.

This Tormund Giantsbane does not look at her with surprise or sadness or even reluctance. He looks at her like she’s a dessert he intends to devour.

*

The first time he touches her, she breaks his nose. She doesn’t mean to. Had he not come upon her when she was relaxed and off-guard, Lady Sansa in the protection of her brother and Dolorous Edd for some hours, he wouldn’t have surprised her and she wouldn’t have reacted instinctively, violently.

“It’s called stealing,” Jon Snow would tell her later, barely suppressed amusement on his face, her appreciation at his effort doing nothing to lessen the throbbing heat of embarrassment on her cheeks and chest. “Freefolk believe a good woman is worth a good fight.”

Tormund only laughs in delight as he lies on the ground, blood streaming from his nose to coat his cheek and drip to the snow where it steams in the cold air. He props himself up on his elbows and grins at her so lasciviously that the jangle of battle in her blood mixes with a sick-sweet ache low in her belly and she has to practically run away like a scared little girl, lest she either kiss him or strike him again.

*

When at last she does kiss him, it’s because she’s come to trust him, or at least to trust that this is no trick. It’s because his unflagging, cheery ardor is impossible to resist. It’s because they’re on the eve of battle and she does not wish to go to her grave a maid in every single way. Brienne has loved one man, and almost loved another, but never has she felt what it means to be loved herself. Perhaps this is her only chance.

“I was to steal ye first, lass,” he says without rancor after she corners him away from everyone else and presses her lips to his in a clumsy fumble, “but we can do this your kneeler way.”

There is no clumsiness in the second kiss. Just heat and skill and demand. To her surprise, the demand is not only his, but her own as well. She kisses him again and suddenly the snow around them could be cotton for how warm all over she feels.

“Perhaps I should steal you instead,” she hears herself saying and she blinks, astonished that she would be so bold. He blinks as well, a slow smile spreading across his face. He’s nearly of a height with her. She has only to tilt her head just the smallest bit to touch her lips to his. His beard is a wild, wooly bristle against her skin, softer than she’d expected but still rough enough to make her chin prickle.

“I suppose I could adjust to such a thing,” he says.

Brienne imagines it. Finding him at night, bundled in his furs. Taking him to her tent – it’s fantasy, she rationalizes, she can imagine it’s her own tent rather than a cot in Lady Sansa’s – pushing him to the ground, kissing him with a need just short of violence, doing all the things with him she’s never quite let herself imagine doing with a man. It’s a strange thing, to realize she’s a woman of such desires after so long, that even a great beast of a woman as she can be sexual rather than a hopeless, pitiful romantic waiting to be noticed and loved. It’s all rather freeing.

She kisses him again before shoving him away and returning to camp. Nightfall can’t come soon enough for once.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Classic by MKTO


End file.
